They Never Bury Your Bones
by BeneathTheHill
Summary: We all know Jack has visited a lot of beds in his time. Heaven knows how many children he has running around. But what happens when on of them shows up, and has distinct interest in kicking him somewhere most men don't wish to be kicked? Let's find out.
1. Chapter 1

It was when she saw her mother's pale, clenched face that Arwen MacBride made her decision.

As she saw it, there hadn't been much choice, really. Her mother had always loved that no-good, abandoning, double-crossing, scum of a pirate. Captain. _Captain, _she thought, _my arse._

She supposed it wasn't really unusual for a Tortuga girl to grow up hating her father. Most of them were far from well-to-do. Many, like Arwen, the unplanned, if not unwanted, daughters of common whores. An overwhelming number, like Arwen, had mothers who had wrongfully trusted a man, and paid for it. Many of them, like Arwen, worked in pubs and got their arses pinched and their persons sworn at on a day-to-day basis. (One has to admit that these girls were better off than the ones on the streets.)

But not many of them were the illegitimate daughter of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.

And that, dear reader, is where our story begins.

****

She was a skinny girl of sixteen, and quite small. Not to mention quick. She stole into the midshipmen's part of the ship unnoticed, and left the same way. Arwen felt a little sorry for the boy whose clothes she had stolen—but not too much. He had money. He could afford something else. Arwen had nothing. Besides, she would have been practically swimming in men's apparel.

Mrs. Price who wore too much rouge and Mrs. Nightwing who wore not enough rouge came from down the street to care for her mother. Arwen said she was going to work her mother's shift, so she wouldn't loose her job, the only thing that kept the family of two (plus sometimes a one-eared cat) truly afloat.

She didn't come back.

*****

It was simple enough. Everyone, even a girl, knew which bar a man ought to go to if he wanted to join up with a crew, or as the case may be find one of his own. Arwen resembled a boy, with her hard-worn hands and harder expression. She was not a particularly pretty thing, which was rather unfortunate. Her mother had been an exceptionally pretty woman, before falling ill. Arwen more took after her father; she had inherited his sharp nose and square jaw. Her only regret was her inability to grow facial hair—it made her look small and vulnerable.

One could not blame Arwen for wishing to be a boy. You might have, too, if you had been born into a world of ships and wenches and not enough to eat.

She marched into the pub with the most manly saunter she could manage—she was rather lucky no one was watching, really. With her exaggerated swinging of her slim shoulders and obnoxious swagger, she looked more than ridiculous. She looked as if she was asking for a fight.

Her cloudy blue orbs scanned the crowd of drunken bastards. _He has to be here. He just has to be here. _And there he was, grotesque feet propped up on the table, stool teetering precariously towards the floor, nauseating grog in his hand. The sight disgusted Arwen.

"Captain Jack Sparrow?" She had trouble saying this without spitting it out like a bad word. There was silence. "Captain Jack Sparrow?" Louder, this time.

He turned, waveringly. The alcohol had quite overtaken him. Arwen resisted the urge to see if a sharp jab in the chest would tip him over backwards.

"That's me, lad." The captain cradled his jaw in his palm, elbow propped onto the table. He grinned, gold teeth glinting in the dirty light shining in from the window above. "And now that you've found me—"

"I'm looking for passage." Arwen cut him off, nose wrinkling in distaste. "On your ship. The Black Pearl." Her voice was steady, but she was trembling inside. What if he refused?

"And what makes you think," He stopped to recollect his thoughts, slowed by the alcohol. "What makes you think that I—"

"I can pay you." She made a mental note not to make a habit of interrupting him. He didn't seem to like it.

The captain grinned, that signature lip curl visible as he spoke. "Well, lad," He said. "That's much different."

He didn't recognize her. Arwen fought back a smile.

*****

Jack recognized her. It wasn't that she had neglected to bind her breasts properly (however small she was, she had been greatly endowed in certain places) or her plain, but feminine face. It wasn't his nose on her face—in fact, he wouldn't notice this for some time—nor was it that he remembered her from the one time he had met her, as a child in arms.

It was her eyes. They were her mother's eyes. A dark blue. Wide. Thickly lined in dark lashes. The eyes of a very pretty wench from long ago. Almost 20 years ago…or was it less? Alcohol had muddled his memory as well as his senses.

Although the more he stared into him, the more he noticed a difference. Lettice's eyes had been cheerful, sparkling. This girl's eyes were hard. Clouded. Angry. Guarded. Murderous. He shuddered a fraction, in spite of himself. A woman scorned is…well, a woman scorned is a woman scorned.

He wondered what had happened to her.

She was talking. _Focus, Jack, old mate. Focus. Wooooooooooooords. _

"So you see, I don't really care where I end up, Captain, I just need to leave. You understand. I knew I'd be…" She stopped. Jack figured that whatever she rehearsed was not easy for her to say. "I knew me best bet was with you. On your. Ship. Under. Your protection."

He snorted. "Passage is all you get, lad. I'm offerin' no protection from cannon fire, pirates, or…or…undead monkeys."

"…sir?"

"You know. You shoot 'em and they don't die. Undead. Nasty little buggars. Always after your hat. " He waved his hand, ending it. Something in his drunken heart panged for his old hat, the one lost to the kraken. "'Sides. I haven't seen the gold yet."

She looked uncomfortable, but reached into her boot and pulled out a ragged little sack. She slid it across the table.

"You got a name, lad?"

"John Mayweather." An awfully automatic reply. Jack decided she'd have to work on her acting skills to convince a whole ship.

"A good name. Solid. Reminds me 'o Will Turner. Friend 'o mine. You e'er 'ear 'o him?" His speech was deteriorating. Even weak grog had that effect if you drank enough of it.

"Who hasn't, Captain?"

He laughed a rumbly, drunken sort of laugh, opening the sack to peer inside. A few silver pieces. Normally, he would have demanded more in the odd chance he took on a passenger. He glanced up at her quickly, dark eyes glinting.

There was room for exception here. It—she—could be interesting.

Besides, he was nearly out of grog and rather more in the mood for rum anyway.

"Mr. Mayweather," Jack stood. "Have a seat."


	2. Chapter 2

**If you want the truth, the crew of the Black Pearl wasn't what it had been. A few years had passed, and, let's be honest, they hadn't been the most loyal crew to begin with. Sure, Joshamee Gibbs had stuck around (Was there any getting rid of him?) and Anamaria had wandered back at some point—something about her replacement boat being a "bloody hunk of rot wood." **

**Pathetically enough, that was about all that was left of our favorite privateers of old.**

**Now, dear reader, this is not suggesting that the ship was handled by three people. There was always ten to fifteen insignificant men manning the various bits and pieces involved in a ship. There was a man called Bowie, who said very little, and a fair-haired boy who looked only a couple years older than Arwen, as well as rather frightened by the rest of the crew. A tall black man who was missing most of his left ear did much of the heavy lifting.**

**Arwen had yet to separate anyone else out from the grunting, sweaty hogs milling about the decks. The sun was blaring hot, and the young and newly cross dressed girl was confused. Mr. Gibbs had smiled at her and thrown a knowing look at The Captain, who had scowled and stomped away. The first mate proceeded to whisper to Anamaria, who rolled her eyes and shrugged.**

**She was now perched on a rickety-looking crate, pulling threads out of her loose trousers and gazing about, wide-eyed. This was turning out to be much more frightening than she had expected, but she must not let it show.**

_**I am a MacBride, **_**she reminded herself, **_**MacBrides are never afraid. **_**This was something her mother had often said, despite that fact that the only member of her daughter's lineage she had ever known was an Uncle Hank, who had been afraid to go outside (or perhaps just too lazy). She also wasn't completely sure he was really her Uncle, but she hadn't considered this something Arwen needed to know. **

**At any rate, for Arwen, things were looking dimmer and dimmer. She was a girl with no prospects—no money, no place to go, not even a pretty, helpless face to rely on (you never know when rich people are going to take pity on the more attractive beggar children.) But at least she realized that all she had to work with was her wits and the knife in her boot. And it some ways, these things alone were worth a lot more than being nice to look at.**

**--------------------------------------------------**

**Jack hadn't really anticipated Gibbs recognizing Lettice's child. What kind of a mate makes a point of remembering his revered acquaintance's passing flames? A bloody useless one. Who really deserved to be thrown overboard. Blindfolded. **

**But then who would actually run the shi—he meant, help him? **

_**Bugger it all. **_

_**------------------------------------------------------**_

_**Arwen had been given a room. Immediately she knew something was up. In all her sixteen years, she had never heard of an insignificant cabin boy—and that was what her position boiled down to, really, even if she had paid for it—getting a whole room to herself, er, himself. Her thoughts moved quickly. Did he know? Maybe he just recognized that she was really a girl and was being a gentleman. (Then, of course, she remembered that she hated him, and that he was no gentleman.) He didn't recognize her. Maybe this was common procedure. Maybe he suspected the crew would…(Here, reader, I'll let you imagine the tales of sodomy used to scare children away from a life on the sea that flew through our heroine's head.) And then she would be found out, and… (And here I'll leave to the imagination the chilling descriptions of what a man on the sea for months on end could be driven to in the presence of a defenseless young lass Arwen had been told. I can't really give you the purpose for these tales, except that even Tortuga mothers can be sensible about their daughters.) And so the raven-haired female resumed her pacing and watching the door, still without answers; and still without supper, her stomach noted. She grimaced.**_

_**---------------------------------------------------------**_

_**Lettice was up and walking in their apartment back on solid land. Mrs. Price had left the "poor dear" with a cup of tea and gone out to see about finding Arwen. Mrs. Nightwing was fast asleep, her breath scented with the not-so pleasant aroma of whiskey. Lettice frowned. That would come out of her pay, if indeed she'd be paid anything at all that week. Her head was pounding like mad. To her bare feet, the rough wooden floor felt like ice. If she had know what the phrase tropical climate referred to, she would have scoffed. **_

_**Slowly, she shook the sleeper's shoulder. She startled awake.**_

"_**What? What? No, I didn't take the—oh, hello dear, how are you feeling?" Mrs. Nightwing purred sweetly, discreetly trying to squirrel the whiskey away under her tight-fitting shift. Lettice wrinkled her nose. **_

"_**Completely horrible. Please, Mrs. Nightwing," She struggled to keep from swaying, "Where is my daughter?"**_

"_**Don't know." The older woman breathed, heaving herself out of the rickety chair. "Gone off. Shopping or summat. Didn't come back." She stretched. "Back into bed, then, love. There's a good love." **_

_**Lettice allowed herself to be steered towards the makeshift mattress on the floor. It was full of bedbugs. "What do you mean she didn't come back?" She coughed, suddenly and violently.**_

"_**Can't say I know," Mrs. Nightwing answered. "Went off this morning. Think she said she was going to work for you. Asked old Lucy and me to keep an eye on you." She tucked the moth-eaten covers around Lettice's thin shoulders.**_

_**For herself, Lettice glanced towards the window to her right. Darkness was falling. She swallowed. **_


End file.
